


Slip, Slidin' Away

by Breath4Soul



Series: John is a Tender BAMF [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuddly Sherlock, Dark John, Dark John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Hurt, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Skating, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, POV John, POV John Watson, Sad John, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sleepy Cuddles, Unread, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was silence for a long moment, then I felt the pulling of the covers and the dipping of the mattress as he slid over closer to me, so close I could feel the heat radiating off of him through my clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slip, Slidin' Away

Leave it to the world’s only _consulting detective_ to be as skilled at skating as he is at violin, waltzing _(don’t ask me how I know that)_ and reducing well-meaning potential clients to quivering mounds of humiliation or rage. The man does _nothing_ in half measures.

It should not surprise me, honestly, because what is ice skating but _dancing on knife blades_ , and surely there couldn’t be an activity better suited for the likes of Sherlock Holmes than _that._

Still, when I found myself watching his tall, wisp of a figure making elegant twists and turns across the flooded and frozen fields near Ely, my mouth dropped open and my eyes grew wide as I tried to take in the hypnotic dance made by Sherlock and the smaller figure skittering, twirling and careening across that frozen wasteland. 

This was a _deadly dance_. Sherlock grappled with a former Olympic hopeful turned murderer in an effort to bring justice to a young man found encased in ice two days earlier. 

The sharp sound of blades scraping and slicing into ice echoed across the lake as they circled at arms length, fists dug into each other’s coats. Sherlock pushed off the ice, spinning faster and yanking hard on the other man so that the skate of the smaller man flew out in a wide arc behind him. The man pulled his leg forward, swiping the blade of his skate at Sherlock’s shin. Sherlock adeptly avoided the skate by shoving the man backwards and releasing his hold on the man’s coat. The smaller man stumbled, then glided off, nimbly speeding away. Sherlock’s long legs allowed him to swiftly catch up with the other man and Sherlock seized the man, hauling him backwards. They spun in a tight circle, the smaller man turning in on Sherlock. 

I watched from the side of the lake, unable to shake the notion that this dance was _strangely familiar._

“John,” Sherlock huffed. 

I looked down at my own feet, laced with ice skates. 

It goes without saying that my skill set is quite different than Sherlock’s. In fact we possess very little in common except a sense of justice and what Sherlock would call _an abnormal attraction to danger._ This was one time when I was acutely aware that our divergence in skills was not a _compliment_ but instead a _detriment_ to our mutual goal. Ice skating was so _not my area._

“I -I can’t..” I took a tentative step on to the ice and my legs began to splay. I tried to pull my feet together and my ankle twisted to the side in the skate. I scrambled back to the shore, looking up in time to see the smaller man ram himself fully bodily into Sherlock’s knees and Sherlock topple over, crashing to the ice.

“Any time, John,” Sherlock panted in an annoyed tone as he grappled with the smaller man that was now on top of him, fists flying against Sherlock’s ribs. 

“Sod this,” I grumbled and quickly yanked my skates off, keeping one in hand. I backed up and took a run at the lake, dropping to my knees as I slid out onto the ice. Thankfully, they were not so far out on the lake that my momentum couldn’t carry me there. 

The smaller man was now standing over Sherlock. Sherlock had a hold of the man’s bladed foot, which the man was trying to stomp down into Sherlock’s chest. I reached the pair just as the smaller man yanked his skate free, slicing Sherlock’s hand in the process. 

I tackled him from the side, leaping over Sherlock and landing hard on the other man. As I was still clutching one of my errant skates, I pressed the blade to the throat of the tiny, angry, murdering scum. He stilled at once. He had the nerve to smile at me so I pressed it a bit harder. “I’m just looking for a reason,” I growled. A thin ribbon of red bloomed on the man’s skin where the blade met it and suddenly Sherlock’s hand was on mine.

“That’s enough, John,” Sherlock said carefully. I looked up at him and there was cautious concern in his eyes. I had seen that look more times that I liked lately. 

I fell back off the man, allowing Sherlock to cuff him. I was still just sitting there like a lump of meat on the ice, my eyes tracking Sherlock, when the local authorities arrived a short time later.

_Ever since the night of Leinster Gardens when Mary transformed from a loving wife and mother of my unborn child to a lying, murdering, cold blooded assassin I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Something in me died that night. It was whatever part of me had once been able to care about scum like the one that ended up on the business end of my useless skate._

I hated it, hated him, hated the whole bloody messed up world. I _might_ of killed him. Surely I would not have minded hurting him a bit more. That scared me. No matter what I had to do to survive in the past I never took pleasure in hurting another person… but there had been something strangely satisfying in seeing that ribbon of blood bloom on that little man’s neck. Was this how killers got started - normal people with the hearts _burned out_ of them?  
__________

“He had already killed that young man - his lover - he was trying to kill _you_. Was I suppose to just _let that happen_ , Sherlock?”

We were back in the overstuffed bedroom of the small inn we were staying in as we investigated the case. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, sleeve rolled up on his light blue dress shirt. I sat in a chair facing him, his sliced hand in my lap, balancing the first aid kit on my knee.

“Of course not, John.” Sherlock’s voice was too soft, too understanding and had an unmistakable underpinning of sadness. It made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I ripped open a small package that contained a folded alcohol wipe.

“I’m not sorry, Sherlock. He was _scum_. He deserved that _and more._ ” I cleaned the cut with practiced hands, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath that had nothing to do with the gash in his palm. I didn’t look up at him. I was so tired of seeing the disappointment and sadness in his eyes. I much preferred it when he was all cold indifference and disdain.

“Yes… _Not_ a very _good man_.” I knew that the way Sherlock enunciated the words of his last sentence was to intentionally bring my mind round to our first night when I shot the cabbie to save him from himself. He had said that _same sentence_ then.

The feelings of that moment tried to press to the surface. The calm of at last finding my purpose again; protecting this exceedingly rare and pleasingly unpredictable anomaly called _Sherlock Holmes._ The strange thrill when he sauntered over to me with knowing eyes. The deep camaraderieship I felt, absent since the army, of having improbably survived a battle and marching forward into a war trusting in your own gun and the man beside you.

I shook my head. That was all _very_ long ago now. The enemies weren’t clear anymore and, after all this time, I need only look at that long, thin, alabaster hand with its ugly gaping, red wound to be reminded how miserably I had _failed_ at my task of keeping him safe. Sherlock had jumped from a building _because of me,_ relapsed into drug use _because of me_ , had been shot and nearly died _because of me_ , and now his perfect hand would bear a scar for the rest of its days, _because of me_ … Because Sherlock Holmes needed _more man than me_ to protect _him_. 

I felt the burning in my eyes and my vision began to blur. I blinked to try to press back the tears.

“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock asserted. I looked up at him and could see he had followed my whole line of thought. 

I felt every muscle in me tighten in anger as the memory washed over me.

“ _Everything_ is _always_ my fault,” I contended haltingly. I placed the bandage on his wound and hastily pushed his hand away.

“I’ll take the floor,” I declared snatching my clothes bag and heading for the loo. The first night neither he nor I had slept, the second Sherlock had fallen asleep at the computer and I had gratefully claimed the bed. Tonight had to be negotiated and I was in no mood for _that_ dance.

“There’s a draft,” Sherlock said reproachfully.

“I’ll survive,” I said slamming the door to the loo. 

_____________  
Curled in a blanket on the hard wooden floor, I had found _maybe_ two fitful hours sleep. It was a horrible, dream-filled sleep, pregnant with mixed metaphors and people chasing me into smaller and more dangerous rooms that never seemed to have locks that worked quite right. 

The migraine that assaulted me when I woke made me want to vomit the moment I opened my eyes; a chopstick in my brain jamming into the sensitive temples with both ends. My whole body ached with stiffness and my head felt like an ice block from the cold air that had assaulted it all night. 

I got to my feet, groaning and cracking as I straightened myself. In the milky light from the window I could see Sherlock asleep on the bed. He was turned towards me, curled up as he did on the sofa of our flat, making himself surprisingly compact. 

I sank into the chair. It was _not_ comfortable enough to sleep in _by any measure,_ but I knew I couldn’t return to the floor. I _needed_ to sleep. All day tomorrow would involve paperwork and travel and I couldn’t afford to be in pain or foggy brained and grumpy from lack of sleep. 

_‘You’re being ridiculous,’_ I muttered to myself as I looked at the big empty space beside Sherlock on the bed. _‘Keep to yourself and he won’t even know you’re there.’_

I could hardly stifle the sigh of pleasure as I sank on to the soft mattress and slipped under the warm covers, offering instant relief for all my sore muscles. I turned on my side, facing away from Sherlock and quickly drifted off to sleep.  
_______________  
Some habits from my army days have always stayed with me. Especially in unfamiliar places, I sleep lightly and wake quickly. So it only took that slightest breath of my name to rouse me from sleep and make me immediately alert.

“John?” Sherlock stirred, the bed moving as he pushed himself up and his eyes searched the darkness for me. My back still to him, I felt the bed dip slightly as he turned towards me and at last recognized I was beside him. I heard his sigh of relief and felt as he dropped back on to the bed. 

There was silence for a long moment, then I felt the pulling of the covers and the dipping of the mattress as he slid over closer to me, so close I could feel the heat radiating off of him through my clothes.

He stayed there, very close and still, but not touching. The heat from him was surprisingly soothing as it leeched into my skin, unwinding my muscles and soothing my bones. In spite of myself I let out a contented sigh and felt through the mattress as he stiffened, realizing I was awake. 

It only took Sherlock a half second to deduce that I had been awake since before he had slid close to me and that I hadn’t moved away or otherwise objected. I felt him relax again. 

We laid there for several minutes, me on my side, him on his back. I listened to his breathing, synchronizing with mine. and drank in his warmth, feeling all the things it unraveled in me. Pain, I had forgotten I had, suddenly apparent in its pronounced absence.

Then it seemed to equalize, the closeness so familiar the skin ceased to know where his heat ended and mine began. Him becoming me and me becoming him to the point that the space inbetween ceased to have meaning. I couldn’t help but feel something lost. 

I leaned back. There was only a breath between us, so it took so little movement on my part, but the change was immense, because now I could feel him, not just his heat. I could feel his shoulder slotted between my shoulder blades, I could feel the every rise and fall of his breath moving my own body up and down, I could feel how my back side fit into the curve above his hips. Sherlock’s breathing pattern changed for a moment, deeper and faster, but he didn’t tense or pull away. 

I let my weight rest against him and let the sensations wash over me. I felt the most human I had in weeks, as if his touch was teaching me how to feel again, his steady breaths teaching my own lungs how to breathe, his heartbeat slowly coaxing my own sputtering heart into a more natural rhythm. 

I began to shake. Sherlock stayed still, like an anchor in the storm as the tears fell hot and angry, wracking my whole body with painful sobs. I don’t know how long I wept, every time I almost got it under control a thought would pounce on me and I would be washed away again. 

The soft light of morning was beginning to creep into the room when my breathing returned to normal and I lay there feeling like a wrung dish rag, Sherlock’s steady breathing beneath me in time with my own. My mind was quiet and my thoughts slid across it like a skater on a frozen pond.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. His voice was quiet and deep but still startled me.

“Yes, Sherlock?” My voice was raw and gravely from crying, almost unrecognizable.

“I’m going to teach you to skate today,” Sherlock said resolutely. 

I began to laugh, my body shaking against his, and his reciprocating with tremors of laughter of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Dec 7 Johnlockadventcalendar Prompt: Slip, Slidin’ Away  
> 


End file.
